Goldfish Memory

I'm not gonna lie — tryouts were a total disaster. But let me back up.

My mom, being the typical overachiever parent, forced me to sign up for the swim team. "It'll look great on college applications," she said, passing me a handful of vitamin supplements like they were magic performance pills. Meanwhile, I've been avoiding water since the Great Pool Incident of seventh grade, which we shall never discuss.

So there I was, standing at the community center pool, surrounded by athletes who looked like they were born in chlorine. Coach Miller blew his whistle — that sound still haunts my dreams — and suddenly everyone was off like shots.

I jumped in. Or, like, dramatically flopped. My arms started flailing in what I thought was swimming but was basically me fighting for my life. I swallowed half the pool. People were actually laughing. Not like mean-girl laughter, but genuine "oh my god, what is happening" laughter.

Then I saw her — Riley, the girl from my English class who always sits in the back, wearing that oversized hoodie with the galaxy print. She wasn't laughing. She was just watching me with this tiny smile, like she knew something I didn't.

After my humiliating attempt at not drowning, I pulled myself out of the water, gasping. Riley walked over.

"You know," she said, "goldfish have a three-second memory. You could just pretend none of that happened."

I laughed, even though my ribs hurt from the water I'd inhaled. "Great. My life goal is now matching the cognitive abilities of a fish."

"Hey, fish are underrated," she said. "Plus, I saw your running form when you bolted from the pool. You've got solid form. Track starts next week."

I blinked. Riley, the quiet girl who drew in class margins, was the track captain?

"Consider this," she continued, "you're terrible at swimming, but that's kinda badass. You tried anyway. Most people wouldn't have even shown up."

We ended up sitting on the pool deck for an hour while the real swimmers practiced. We talked about everything — her art, my disastrous attempt at water sports, how both our parents were obsessed with us becoming "well-rounded." She told me about the time she joined cheerleading just to prove she could, then quit because the uniform itched.

"The vitamin supplements my mom gives me are supposed to help with focus," I told her, pulling the bottle from my bag. "Honestly, I think they're just expensive pee."

Riley laughed — actually laughed, and it was this sound like wind chimes. "Tell you what. Come to track practice. I promise zero drowning involved."

I did. Turns out, I'm actually fast. Like, weirdly fast. But mostly, I found someone who got it — who understood that sometimes you have to try the thing you suck at to find the thing you love.

My mom still pushes vitamins on me. I still can't swim worth anything. But every Tuesday and Thursday, you'll find me at the track, running circles around everyone who told me I'd never be an athlete.

And sometimes, Riley sits in the bleachers with her sketchbook, drawing me like I'm something worth capturing.

Funny how life works out. One minute you're flopping in water, the next you're flying on land. You just gotta keep moving.